Desired By Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Elizabeth

H ertfordshire felt dull and empty without Fitzwilliam’s presence, and she did little but think of him. Her departure from London had been difficult, and she felt a sense of melancholy that was unwarranted. After all, she would see him shortly, and then they would never need to be parted again. Their intimacy had only made her more desperate for their wedding day, for she had had no idea that a man and a woman could share such exquisite pleasure.

“What’s the matter, Lizzy?” Jane asked as they darned dresses they would hand down to Mary and Kitty upon their marriage. “You cannot sit still.”

“I am quite still.”

“No, you are not. You are wriggling in your seat, setting down your work, picking it up again, staring off into space…you are quite distracted.”

“I am sure I am not. My eyes are a little tired; the light is dim today.”

Jane eyed the bright autumn sunshine, before turning to her sister.

“You never were a good liar, you know. I never liked to say anything, but I can always tell when you are hiding the truth from me.”

“I do not know…”

“Something happened in London, didn’t it? You have been away with the fairies since we returned, and I have tried to ignore it.”

“Nothing happened, Jane; nothing but I am certain I am helplessly in love, and I am all the happier for it, I assure you.”

“You hold no anxieties about the future?”

“None whatsoever. Any apprehension I may have felt has melted away. I liked London very much, and I believe being Mrs Darcy will be very pleasant indeed. Are you worried, sister?”

“Only that I do not know how to be a wife. Mama makes it sound so very difficult. I should not like to disappoint Mr Bingley.”

“I do not know how many times I can say this, Jane, but Mr Bingley would not be disappointed even if it transpired you were a werewolf. I believe he would cheerfully welcome you back after every full moon had passed.”

“Lizzy! You are silly. You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were keeping a secret.”

“Then it would not be much of a secret, would it?”

“Lizzy!”

“Hush. There is nothing to talk about.”

Lizzy would never tell another soul of what had happened on that delicious night in Mr Darcy’s library; not even her sister, her closest confidante. It was a precious secret, shared between her and the man she loved more than anything.

Jane sighed but said nothing more, though her eyes lingered on Lizzy’s face with a knowing softness. She returned to her needlework, and for a time, they sewed in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional snap of thread or rustle of fabric.

But Lizzy could not focus. The memory of that night - his hands, his lips, the way he had murmured her name - lingered too vividly. How could she be expected to think of anything else when every part of her longed for him? When the days stretched on endlessly, and the nights were worse, because it was then that her mind most cruelly replayed every whispered word, every stolen touch?

She pressed her lips together, trying to suppress a smile at the thought of him. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the proud and enigmatic master of Pemberley, had undone her completely. And yet, she had never felt more herself.

Jane’s voice pulled her from her reverie.

“I do hope Charles and Mr Darcy will not delay their arrival,” she said, her tone light but betraying the same eager anticipation that Lizzy felt. “Mama is beside herself with preparations. I know it is tradition that the wedding breakfast be held at Longbourn, but it would have been far easier to host the affair at Netherfield.”

Lizzy barely heard what her sister said as she stared out of the window. Somewhere, far beyond the rolling hills of Hertfordshire, Fitzwilliam was preparing to return to her. Soon, she would see him again, feel his touch, hear the warmth in his voice when he spoke her name.

Once reunited, they would never be parted again.

The day of Mr Darcy’s arrival dawned crisp and golden, autumn wrapping Longbourn in its gentle embrace. Elizabeth spent the morning feigning patience, pretending to listen as her mother chattered endlessly about the wedding details, while Jane, ever serene, only smiled at her sister’s restlessness. But inside, Lizzy felt nearly undone. Every tick of the clock stretched unbearably, and every sound of hooves in the drive sent her heart racing - only to leave her disappointed when it was merely the delivery of flowers or fresh linens.

Then, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, she heard it - the steady, unmistakable rhythm of approaching riders. She rose, her pulse quickening, and made her way to the window just in time to see them: Bingley, cheerful as ever, calling out a greeting to the servants, and beside him, Fitzwilliam Darcy, dismounting with his usual quiet grace.

Lizzy barely waited for propriety to dictate her next move. She excused herself hastily and made her way outside, the cool air rushing over her heated skin as she stepped onto the gravel path.

Darcy turned at once at the sound of her footfalls, and the moment their eyes met, the rest of the world faded away. He looked as he always did - tall, composed, devastatingly handsome - but there was something softer in his gaze, something unguarded that sent a shiver through her.

“Elizabeth.” His voice was rich with longing, and she had to clasp her hands before her to keep from throwing herself into his arms.

“Mr Darcy,” she teased, though her voice was breathless. “I had begun to think you would never return to Hertfordshire. There are mere days until our wedding; you lingered in London far too long.”

He stepped forward, lowering his voice.

“I have counted the minutes.”

“I have counted the seconds.”

For a moment, they simply stood there, eyes locked upon one another as though they would vanish. The gravel crunched behind her, and she heard Mr Bingley calling for Jane. She sprang back, reminded that they were not alone, and they were not unseen.

“We must be patient,” he murmured, though his fingers twitched at his side, as if aching to touch her.

“I tire of patience,” Lizzy whispered, and his eyes darkened. “But I suppose, a few days more shall not hurt.”

Patience, as it transpired, was indeed something Lizzy lacked. Not in regards to Fitzwilliam, but her family. Her mother had become even more overbearing as the wedding neared, and her mind was frayed with talk of flowers and dresses. Mrs Bennet, never one to be accused of subtlety, had become utterly unbearable as the wedding day approached. Every waking moment was filled with discussions - nay, incessant monologues - on matters Lizzy could scarcely bring herself to care about. The seating arrangements, the colour of the ribbons adorning the church pews, the precise number of courses to be served at the wedding breakfast - these were, in Mrs Bennet’s mind, questions of the gravest importance. To Lizzy, however, they were nothing but trifles, insignificant details that paled in comparison to the true meaning of the day.

How many times had she been summoned to offer an opinion on lace versus embroidery, on violets versus roses, only for her input to be ignored in favour of whatever her mother had already decided? How often had she been forced to listen to lamentations about the expenses, the guest list, the absolute necessity of making the event as grand as possible? This evening, her final as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her patience had at last frayed and she had told her mother to be quiet. The response had been so dramatic - gasps, exclamations, the clutching of handkerchiefs - that Lizzy had stormed from the house.

And so, she sat alone in the garden as the sun began to set the night before her wedding, tucked away in the gazebo.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy’s voice came from behind her. “I have been sent to fetch you for dinner.”

“Fitzwilliam! I did not expect you tonight.”

“I received a missive from your father inviting me to dine with you. I have been lead to believe things have been a little fraught today.”

“A little! My mother is quite mad. We shall have enough food for all of Hertfordshire at the wedding breakfast. I cannot hear another thing about flowers or dresses, or…”

“Then I will make no mention of anything other than my excitement to see you as you walk up the aisle tomorrow. You could wear rags and carry dandelions, and you would be the most beautiful bride.”

“You flatter me,” she smiled. “I am glad to see you. I suppose I must return inside.”

“I agree, before your mother accuses me of whisking you away before the vows have even been spoken.”

Lizzy took his arm, squeezing it lightly.

“Perhaps she would be right to worry. If you were to suggest elopement at this moment, I might not refuse.”

He chuckled, guiding her back toward the house.

“As tempting as that may be, my love, I suspect your mother would not recover.”

“Very well,” she sighed dramatically. “I shall endure one more evening of lace and roses and endless fuss. But after that, Fitzwilliam, you must promise me a life free of such nonsense.”

He looked down at her, his expression soft.

“I promise you a life filled only with what truly matters.”

And with that, Lizzy allowed herself to be led back inside, bracing herself for one final evening as Miss Bennet - with the comforting certainty that by tomorrow night, she would be Elizabeth Darcy.

∞∞∞

The wedding took place on an impossibly bright November morning, the air crisp but gentle, the last of autumn’s golden leaves trembling on their branches. Sunlight poured down in ribbons of gold, illuminating the path to the church, where a hush of anticipation had fallen over the gathered guests. The scent of late roses from Longbourn’s garden clung to Lizzy’s bouquet, their fragrance mingling with the cool, clean bite of the season.

Lizzy had always wondered what sort of bride she would be. She had known she would never possess Jane’s angelic grace. Her sister seemed to float rather than walk, radiating a soft beauty that made even the hardest of hearts tender. Nor was she the sort to blush prettily beneath her veil, casting down her eyes in demure modesty. No, Lizzy had met Mr Darcy’s gaze with steady confidence as they exchanged vows, her voice strong and clear. The day had been a whirl of handshakes and laughter, congratulations and warm embraces, of Mr Bingley’s effusive cheer and her father’s dry, affectionate wit. Even her mother had been momentarily silenced by the grandeur of the occasion, her usual fluttering nerves subdued by the reality of her daughter marrying so well.

As evening fell, both sets of newlyweds had departed Longbourn for Netherfield, where they would spend their first night as married couples. Lizzy stood alone in her temporary bedroom. Despite the time she had previously spent here, the house was unfamiliar to her still, grander and more refined than her childhood home, yet touched with a warmth she had not expected. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, and the scent of beeswax and lavender polish filled the air. It was a room that had been prepared thoroughly for its guests and the purpose of the night, and Lizzy could not help but feel something obscene in it.

She stood in front of the dressing table mirror, her reflection staring back at her. Her wedding gown, exquisite in its simplicity, still clung to her frame, though her veil and shoes had been discarded after the long day. Her dark curls had loosened from their careful arrangement, framing her face with wayward strands. Her eyes searched her own expression, looking for something - some sign of transformation, some tangible proof that she had crossed the threshold from Elizabeth Bennet to Elizabeth Darcy.

She felt no different. And yet, she was.

She studied herself, looking for a change. She was Mrs Darcy, the gold band on her left hand signifying her new title. Her hair was still wild, tumbling free from the elaborate style it had been placed in that morning. Her cheeks were still pleasantly plump, rosy with happiness. Her eyes, they seemed the same too.

There was a knock at the door, startling her from her assessment.

“Come in,” she called, smoothing out her dress.

Her new lady’s maid entered, a shy young thing by the name of Hetty who had been sent from Pemberley to attend her, carrying a bundle of fabric in her arms.

“Good evening, ma’am. I have some nightgowns from your trousseau, and I thought you would like to decide which you liked best.”

“Thank you.”

Hetty took care to hang each of the white gowns up, and Elizabeth stared at them all, trying to see the difference between the seemingly identical lace edged gowns. Each one was exquisite, she knew that, and quite the finest thing she would ever sleep in. She reached out, feeling the smooth cotton beneath her fingers. She lingered on one without sleeves; her mind told her she would be cold, but the beast of lust told her that Fitzwilliam would be able to admire her body most easily in that one.

“This one, I think.”

“Very good, ma’am. There is water for your bath, and lavender oil.”

“Lovely.”

She sank into the blissfully hot water, the tension that she had long carried melting away, her eyes closing as she allowed herself to float as though she weighed nothing at all.

The day had passed in a golden haze, a blur of vows and whispered promises, of Jane’s joyful tears and her mother’s delighted exclamations. And of him - always him. The warmth of his hand around hers, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he spoke her name before the gathered assembly. Elizabeth Darcy.

Now, at last, she was alone.

The weight of it all - the joy, the change, the anticipation - pressed upon her as she sank deeper into the warm water. She let out a slow breath, her fingers trailing idly across the surface, watching the ripples catch the candlelight. The scent of lavender curled around her, soothing and familiar, yet nothing about this night felt ordinary.

She was married.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought. The ceremony had been perfect, the reception lively and filled with laughter. Yet through it all, she had been aware of him, of the way his gaze lingered, dark with unspoken words.

And now, Fitzwilliam would come to her.

Her skin heated - not from the water, but from the thought of what was to come. They had stolen kisses, shared moments that had left her breathless, but tonight was different. Tonight, there would be no interruptions, no hurried goodbyes.

Tonight, she would be his in every way. He would be hers too, of course; she wished them to be two bodies entwined, their hearts and souls as one. She ached for him, that now-familiar burning between her thighs returning at the very thought of him.

She took the cloth, running it over her body as she cleaned herself. Her eyes closed, the cloth drifted from her hand as she traced her body with only her fingers. She let out a slow breath, her fingers gliding over the curves of her skin, following the trails of water that slipped down her body. The warmth of the bath surrounded her, steam curling in the air, blurring the edges of the room.

Her mind drifted, lost in the sensation, in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The weight of the day melted away, carried off by the water’s gentle embrace. She lingered, fingertips mapping the softness of her own skin, the steady rise and fall of her breath grounding her in the present.

A distant sound—perhaps the creak of a floorboard or the whisper of wind against the window—pulled her back to awareness. Slowly, she opened her eyes, watching the candlelight flicker and cast shadows against the ceiling. The cloth floated beside her, half-submerged, forgotten for the moment.

She exhaled, sinking deeper into the water, letting herself be consumed by its warmth once more.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Ma’am?” Hetty’s voice was gentle. “Shall I help you dress?”

Elizabeth swallowed, sitting up, the cool air prickling her skin.

“Yes, thank you.”

Hetty moved efficiently, wrapping her in a warmed towel before helping her into the delicate white nightgown she had chosen earlier. The fabric skimmed over her skin like the lightest whisper, and she smoothed nervous hands down the fine lace.

“Will that be all, ma’am?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, Hetty. Thank you.”

The maid curtsied and slipped from the room, leaving Elizabeth standing alone, her heart pounding.

For a moment, she simply breathed, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had been left loose, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her eyes bright.

Would he think her beautiful?

Slipping from the dressing room, Elizabeth paced the floor of her bed chamber until a firm knock at the door startled her from her thoughts.

Taking a steadying breath, she stepped forward and opened it.

Her husband stood just beyond the threshold, still dressed in the remnants of his wedding clothes. His cravat was loosened, his waistcoat discarded and his feet bare. He looked beautiful, the slight shadow of evening stubble on his chin as he came to her, unguarded and gentle. His gaze swept over her, and something in his expression changed - his breath caught, his jaw tightened. She watched the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed thickly.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured.

Her name had never sounded like this before - weighted with reverence, with longing. Her name was poetry on his tongue, the finest music she had ever heard.

She held out a hand to him, beckoning him closer.

“Fitzwilliam.”

He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. For a moment, he only looked at her, as if he could scarcely believe she was real. Then, slowly, he reached for her, his fingers brushing against hers, warm and steady.

“You are Mrs Darcy,” he said softly, testing her new title slowly. “Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”

She laced her fingers through his, tilting her face up to his.

“So I am, Mr Darcy.”

His breath was unsteady as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. She was breathless at his touch, the burn between her thighs growing even at this slight caress. She yearned for his touch everywhere, for his unhindered exploration of her body. There would be time; they had eternity, after all.

“I have dreamed of this night,” his voice was low as his fingers drifted down her neck, his touch eliciting a shiver as she yielded to him.

“So have I.”

And then, with exquisite tenderness, he kissed her.